The Client (39 page)

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THE ROOM WAS DARK AS USUAL; THE LIGHTS OFF, THE door shut, the blinds drawn, the only illumination the moving blue shadows of the muted television high on the wall. Dianne was mentally drained and physically beat from lying in bed with Ricky for eight hours, patting and hugging and cooing and trying to be strong in this damp, dark little cell.

Reggie had stopped by two hours earlier, and they’d sat on the edge of the foldaway bed and talked for thirty minutes. She explained the hearing, assured her Mark was being fed and in no physical danger, described his room at the detention center because she’d seen one before, told her he was safer there than here, and talked about Judge Roosevelt and the FBI and their witness protection program. At first, and under the circumstances, the idea was attractive—they would simply move to a new city with new names and a new job and a decent place to live. They could run from this mess and start over. They could pick a large city with big schools and the boys would get lost in the crowd. But the more she lay there curled on one side
and stared above Ricky’s little head at the wall, the less she liked the idea. In fact, it was a horrible idea—living on the run forever, always afraid of an unexpected knock on the door, always in a panic when one of the boys was late getting home, always lying about their past.

This little plan was forever. What if, she began asking herself, one day, say five or ten years from now, long after the trial in New Orleans, some person she’s never met lets something slip and it’s heard by the wrong ears, and their trails are quickly traced? And when Mark is, say, a senior in high school, somebody waits for him after a ballgame and sticks a gun to his head? His name wouldn’t be Mark, but he would be dead nonetheless.

She had almost decided to veto the idea of witness protection when Mark called her from the jail. He said he’d just finished a large pizza, was feeling great, nice place and all, was enjoying it more than the hospital, food was better, and he chatted so eagerly she knew he was lying. He said he was already plotting his escape, and would soon be out. They talked about Ricky, and the trailer, and the hearing today and the hearing tomorrow. He said he was trusting Reggie’s advice, and Dianne agreed this was best. He apologized for not being there to help with Ricky, and she fought tears when he tried to sound so mature. He apologized again for all this mess.

Their conversation had been brief. She found it difficult to talk to him. She had little motherly advice, and felt like a failure because her eleven-year-old son was in jail and she couldn’t get him out. She couldn’t go see him. She couldn’t go talk to the judge. She couldn’t tell him to talk or to remain quiet because she
was scared too. She couldn’t do a damned thing but stay here in this narrow bed and stare at the walls and pray that she would wake up and the nightmare would be over.

It was 6 P.M., time for the local news. She watched the silent face of the anchorperson and hoped it wouldn’t happen. But it didn’t take long. After two dead bodies were carried from a landfill, a black-and-white still photo of Mark and the cop she’d slapped that morning was suddenly on the screen. She turned up the volume.

The anchorperson gave the basics about the taking of Mark Sway, careful not to call it an arrest, then went to a reporter standing in front of the Juvenile Court building. He rattled on a few seconds about a hearing he knew nothing about, gushed breathlessly that the child, Mark Sway, had been taken back to the Juvenile Detention Center, and that another hearing would be held tomorrow in Judge Roosevelt’s courtroom. Back in the studio, the anchorperson brought ’em up-to-date on young Mark and the tragic suicide of Jerome Clifford. They ran a quick clip of the mourners leaving the chapel that morning in New Orleans, and had a second or two of Roy Foltrigg talking to a reporter under an umbrella. Back quickly to the anchorperson, who began quoting Slick Moeller’s stories, and the suspicion mounted. No comments from the Memphis police, the FBI, the U.S. attorney’s office, or the Shelby County Juvenile Court. The ice got thinner as she skated into the vast, murky world of unnamed sources, all of whom were short on facts but long on speculation. When she mercifully finished and broke for a commercial, the uninformed could easily believe that
young Mark Sway had shot not only Jerome Clifford but Boyd Boyette as well.

Dianne’s stomach ached, and she hit the power button. The room was even darker. She had not taken a single bite of food in ten hours. Ricky twitched and grunted, and this irritated her. She eased from the bed, frustrated with him, frustrated with Greenway for the lack of progress, sick of this hospital with its dungeonlike decor and lighting, horrified at a system that allowed children to be jailed for being children, and, above all, scared of these lurking shadows who’d threatened Mark and burned the trailer and obviously were quite willing to do more. She closed the bathroom door behind her, sat on the edge of the bathtub, and smoked a Virginia Slim. Her hands trembled and her thoughts were a blur. A migraine was forming at the base of her skull, and by midnight she would be paralyzed. Maybe the pills would help.

She flushed the skinny cigarette butt, and sat on the edge of Ricky’s bed. She had vowed to get through this ordeal one day at a time, but damned if the days weren’t getting worse. She couldn’t take much more.

BARRY THE BLADE HAD PICKED THIS DUMPY LITTLE BAR because it was quiet, dark, and he remembered it from his teenage years as a young and aspiring hoodlum on the streets of New Orleans. It was not one he routinely frequented, but it was deep in the Quarter, which meant he could park off Canal and dart through the tourists on Bourbon and Royal, and there was no way the feds could follow him.

He found a tiny table in the back, and sipped a vodka gimlet while waiting for Gronke.

He wanted to be in Memphis himself, but he was out on bond and his movements were restricted. Permission was required before he could leave the state, and he knew better than to ask. Communication with Gronke had been difficult. The paranoia was eating him alive. For eight months now, every curious stare was another cop watching his every move. A stranger behind him on the sidewalk was another fibbie hiding in the darkness. His phones were tapped. His car and house were bugged. He was afraid to speak half the time because he could almost feel the sensors and hidden mikes.

He finished the gimlet and ordered another one. A double. Gronke arrived twenty minutes late, and crowded his bulky frame into a chair in the corner. The ceiling was seven feet above them.

“Nice place,” Gronke said. “How you doin’?”

“Okay.” Barry snapped his fingers and the waiter walked over.

“Beer. Grolsch,” Gronke said.

“Did they follow you?” Barry asked.

“I don’t think so. I’ve zigzagged through half the Quarter, you know.”

“What’s happening up there?”

“Memphis?”

“No. Milwaukee, you dumbass,” Barry said with a smile. “What’s happening with the kid?”

“He’s in jail, and he ain’t talkin’. They took him in this morning, had some kinda hearing at lunch before the youth court, then took him back to jail.”

The bartender carried a heavy tray of dirty beer mugs through the swinging doors into the dirty, cramped kitchen, and when he cleared the doors, two
FBI agents in jeans stopped him. One flashed a badge while the other took the tray.

“What the hell?” the bartender asked, backing to the wall while staring at the badge just inches from the tip of his wide nose.

“FBI. Need a favor,” said Special Agent Scherff calmly, all business. The other agent pressed forward. The bartender owned two felony convictions, and had been enjoying his freedom for less than six months. He became eager.

“Sure. Anything.”

“What’s your name?” asked Scherff.

“Uh, Dole. Link Dole.” He’d used so many names over the years, it was difficult keeping them straight.

The agents inched forward even more and Link began to fear an attack. “Okay, Link. Can you help us?”

Link nodded rapidly. The cook stirred a pot of rice, a cigarette barely hanging from his lips. He glanced their way once but had other things on his mind.

“There are two men out there having a drink in the rear corner, on the right side where the ceiling is low.”

“Yeah, okay, sure. I’m not involved, am I?”

“No, Link. Just listen.” Scherff pulled a matching set of salt and pepper shakers from his pocket. “Put these on a tray with a bottle of ketchup. Go to the table, just routine, you know, and switch these with the ones sitting there now. Ask these guys if they want something to eat, or another drink. You understand?”

Link was nodding but not understanding. “Uh, what’s in these?”

“Salt and pepper,” Scherff said. “And a little bug that allows us to hear what these guys are saying. They’re criminals, okay, Link, and we have them under surveillance.”

“I really don’t want to get involved,” Link said, knowing full well that if they threatened even slightly he’d bust his ass to get involved.

“Don’t make me angry,” Scherff said, waving the shakers.

“Okay, okay.”

A waiter kicked open the swinging doors and shuffled behind them with a stack of dirty dishes. Link took the shakers. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said, trembling.

“It’s a deal, Link. This is our little secret. Now, is there an empty closet around here?” Scherff asked this while looking around the cramped and cluttered kitchen. The answer was obvious. There had not been an empty square foot in this dump in fifty years.

Link thought a second or two, very eager to help his new friends. “No, but there’s a little office right above the bar.”

“Great, Link. Go exchange these, and we’ll set up some equipment in the office.” Link held them gingerly as if they might explode, and returned to the bar.

A waiter placed a bottle of Grolsch in front of Gronke and disappeared.

“The little bastard knows something, doesn’t he?” the Blade said.

“Of course. Otherwise, this wouldn’t be happening. Why would he get himself a lawyer? Why would he clam up like this?” Gronke drained half his Grolsch with one thirsty gulp.

Link approached them with a tray loaded with a
dozen salt and pepper shakers and bottles of ketchup and mustard. “You guys eating dinner?” he asked, all business, as he swapped the shakers and bottles on their table.

Barry waved him off. Gronke said, “No.” And Link was gone. Fewer than thirty feet away, Scherff and three more agents crowded over a small desk and flipped open heavy briefcases. One of the agents grabbed earphones and stuck them to his head. He smiled.

“This kid scares me, man,” Barry said. “He’s told his lawyer, so that makes two more who know.”

“Yeah, but he ain’t talkin’, Barry. Think about it. We got to him. I showed him the picture. We took care of the trailer. The kid is scared to death.”

“I don’t know. Is there any way to get him?”

“Not right now. I mean, hell, the cops have him. He’s locked up.”

“There are ways, you know. I doubt if security is tight at a jail for kids.”

“Yeah, but the cops are scared too. They’re all over the hospital. Got guards sittin’ in the hallway. Fibbies dressed like doctors runnin’ all over the place. These people are terrified of us.”

“But they can make him talk. They can put him in the mouse program, throw a buncha money at his mother. Hell, buy them a fancy new house trailer, maybe a double-wide or something. I’m just nervous as hell, Paul. If this kid was clean we would’ve never heard about him.”

“We can’t hit the kid, Barry.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a kid. Because everybody’s watching
him right now. Because if we do, a million cops’ll hound us to our graves. It won’t work.”

“What about his mother or his brother?”

Gronke took another shot of beer, and shook his head in frustration. He was a tough thug who could threaten with the best of them, but, unlike his friend, he was not a killer. This random search for victims scared him. He said nothing.

“What about his lawyer?” Barry asked.

“Why would you kill her?”

“Maybe I hate lawyers. Maybe it’ll scare the kid so bad he’ll go into a coma like his brother. I don’t know.”

“And maybe killing innocent people in Memphis is not such a good idea. The kid’ll just get another lawyer.”

“We’ll kill the next one too. Think about it, Paul, this could do wonders for the legal profession,” Barry said with a loud laugh. Then he leaned forward as if a terribly private thought hit him. His chin was inches from the salt shaker. “Think about it, Paul. If we knock off the kid’s lawyer, then no lawyer in his right mind would represent him. Get it?”

“You’re losin’ it, Barry. You’re crackin’ up.”

“Yeah, I know. But it’s a great thought, ain’t it? Smoke her, and the kid won’t talk to his own mother. What’s her name, Rollie or Ralphie?”

“Reggie. Reggie Love.”

“What the hell kinda name is that for a broad?”

“Don’t ask me.”

Barry drained his glass and snapped again for the waiter. “What’s she sayin’ on the phone?” he asked, in low again, just above the shaker.

“Don’t know. We couldn’t go in last night.”

The Blade was suddenly angry. “You what!” The wicked eyes were fierce and glowing.

“Our man is doing it tonight if all goes well.”

“What kinda place has she got?”

“Small office in a tall building downtown. It should be easy.”

Scherff pressed the earphone closer to his head. Two of his pals did likewise. The only sound in the room was a slight clicking noise from the recorder.

“Are these guys any good?”

“Nance is pretty smooth and cool under pressure. His partner, Cal Sisson, is a loose cannon. Afraid of his shadow.”

“I want the phones fixed tonight.”

“It’ll be done.”

Barry lit an unfiltered Camel and blew smoke at the ceiling. “Are they protecting the lawyer?” He asked this as his eyes narrowed. Gronke looked away.

“I don’t think so.”

“Where does she live? What kinda place?”

“She’s got a cute little apartment behind her mother’s house.”